If Inconvenient
by The Dandy Lion
Summary: 221b challenge- exactly 221 words each, last word starting with a b. Angst, shameless fluff, and the escapades of our favourite crime-fighting duo abound. Open for suggestions; review please!
1. Balance

**a/n; **Completely inspired by tsukinoblossom and her _stunning _221b-style drabbles, which, if I can be half as impressive and enjoyable in my work, will have me reaching a much-pursued goal. The impending premier of season 2 of Sherlock has me crawling out of my skin; this is how I plan on venting it all. I hope at least someone enjoys; reviews are always dearly appreciated, and requests for an idea always taken as well! So here we go; exactly 221 words each, last word always beginning with a B. Enjoy!

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><p>If one asked John, he'd claim he and Sherlock made little sense together. He was, in his opinion, generally average. A man of average looks, experiences, talents, and perhaps less than average height. Uninteresting. He could blend into any situation, anywhere, with no features making him particularly outstanding. He was like water- vague, easily seen through, and reflecting whatever others chose to see. Nothing less, nothing more. As a result, he simply couldn't comprehend a man like Sherlock Holmes- exceptional in every way, a charismatic enigma- wanting him around at all.<p>

If one questioned Sherlock, he'd dismiss the query with characteristic flippancy, while his mind ran incessantly. He was occasionally callous, unaware of others' feelings- he was impatient, lost interest easily, and had often been accused of being emotionless. In his opinion, he was like stone- had learned to be, with good reason. He'd always been different than the other kids, from everyone around him- the only way to adjust was to shut it all out. For his massive intellect, the part of him that WAS in possession of emotion was unable to grasp why a man like John Watson- compassionate, considerate, solid- would stick with him as long as he had so far.

They'd always continue to wonder. But there's certainly something to be said for the concept of balance.


	2. Breakfast

**a/n; **Because I just think John playing house is the cutest idea in the world.

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><p>He was a man, solider, and a doctor- a son, brother, friend, and colleague. John could think of many things that he was, that he undoubtedly knew himself to be- but he wasn't sure at what point in his life he'd become a housewife.<p>

It'd started small, after moving in with Sherlock. He'd pick up the groceries- no large issue. He'd make tea on those nights the lanky detective was again up to an ungodly time- staring at his laptop screen like it held the answers to the world's secrets- and would offer the sustaining drink quietly. He'd even cook, whenever they'd both tired of Chinese or diner fare. But on this morning he found himself ironing Sherlock's favourite purple dress shirt, wearing an apron- an object which he had not the a clue of it's origin- it dawned that there was a problem here. What was he doing? He was a grown man, he'd fought in a war. When had he become a bloody domestic? This had to stop- today. This moment, in fact. He was going to put his foot down, put an end to this new Jo-

Sherlock entered the kitchen, argent eyes hooded and hazy with sleep, raven curls mussed. The words slipped from his lips before John understood what was happening.

"Good morning- I made breakfast...!"


	3. Blood

**a/n; **angst!John alert. Even though we all know that killing Sherlock seems to be impossible.

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><p>It was his fault. All his fault, and whatever happened now would haunt him for the rest of his life.<p>

He knew he should've gone with Sherlock- but John had been so _exhausted_ from work, so the detective had gone alone, chasing a lead for his current case. Said chase had ended here- this dark London alleyway that smelled of desperation, desolation, and a million other hateful d-words. Some strange drive had forced him to follow Sherlock here and he'd been greeted with this figure. Face down, shirt knife-blade slashed, a pool of crimson expanding around his form.

John dropped to his knees at the man's side. Some part of him, poisoning the concept with hysterical, ironic near-humor, had him wondering if this was how Sherlock felt on a daily basis. Mind splintering under the speed and impact of so many _thoughts_ all at once, which then shattered into glassy fragments that slashed at him when as tried to collect them.

His mind knew there was no point in bothering. His heart had his trembling hands on the wound, providing futile pressure. But his soul was wailing what seemed to be _nononononono please no,__ not him take me, __I can't do this without him,_ _mine, **my** Sherlock, _and_ oh God, how could anyone** survive losing this much blood**?_


	4. Bunny

**a/n; **This will be far from the last you'll hear about this rabbit. The idea is stuck on me and I think it would just all be MUCH too funny to pass up. I mean... Just imagine it...

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><p>"... What. Is. This?"<p>

John was presented with a stunningly imperious silver-eyed gaze. It'd be intimidating, if he wasn't already long-acclimated to haughty looks from the towering detective.

"Come now, John. Don't insult your _own_ intelligence. You clearly see what it is." The reply was a silky rumble, Sherlock's expression flawlessly deadpan. Nothing strange in that- which was why that norm completely clashed with what the doctor was seeing, held in Sherlock's expansive, graceful-fingered hands.

"A rabbit. Where- where did you get a _rabbit?_"

The taller man's eyebrows arched ever so slightly. "The pet shop down the road."

"The one you _accidentally _burned down during the chase last night?"

"Obviously."

John was increasingly feeling himself losing control of this situation. Like he _ever _had any grasp on what was going on around Sherlock.

"You... _stole_ a rabbit? And brought it here?"

"_Stole _is a dreadful, boring word. I prefer procured, appropriated, extracted..."

"What are we supposed to do with a _rabbit, _Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson'll have a _fit__!"_

Sherlock, surprisingly gentle, placed the diminuitive creature on the couch.

"We're keeping it. Clearly."

And that was that, no further argument and, as usual, no explanation. A long-suffering sigh emitted from John's lips as the unfortunate truth hit- his life would be much simpler if Sherlock was half as easy to handle as a bunny.


	5. Beginning

**a/n; **Because I felt this needed to be written. Pleaseplease review; I know it sounds cliche, but reviews genuinely inspire and motivate me to write more!

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><p>They were at an impasse.<p>

Sherlock felt frozen in one of those daytime television-dramas John had gotten him into- but was too real. The glow from the pool, casting a sickly glow on the scene. The lasers dotting John's chest and his own. Jim from the hospital- _Jim Moriarty, _smiling innocently at them both.

Unfortunately, Sherlock thought, leveling the handgun on the bomb, Moriarty had still ended up underestimating him. In a split second's time, he'd processed everything. The angle of the lasers- what objects around them would produce the most shrapnel- the type of explosives composing the bomb, deduced based on their size and shape. And of course, the velocity and trajectory needed for him to shove John under him, into the pool, before the worst of the blast.

John. Sherlock glanced up at the doctor, who met his gaze steadily, dipping his chin in the merest hint of a nod. An hour's conversation, conducted through one motion. John, who's loyalty, as always, left him trying to save Sherlock- a loyalty he knew he didn't deserve. Who's faith and utter trust, to this moment, still shone.

Sherlock pulled the trigger, and lunged for the man he was willing to give his life for.

Moriarty thought the game had been played to an end.

Sherlock knew it was only just beginning.


	6. Blasphemy

**a/n; **Reviews are like air to me. All these hits and so few? Don't be shy, I don't bite- I swear!

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><p>John Watson was a reasonably religious man.<p>

His parents had always been pious, and that had led to many Sunday mornings in uncomfortable dress shirts, on more uncomfortable pews. He believed in God, and had never let that belief, that guiding force, fail. He'd prayed every night. He'd prayed on the battlefield- usually more for his comrades than himself- and he'd prayed when he'd been shot.

He prayed for safety every time Sherlock left on a case alone, a habit he engaged in unconsciously- he'd sit at his desk, attempting paperwork from the office. In reality, he'd curl with their rabbit in his lap- the creature Sherlock had, for whatever reason, dubbed Charles- and fret. He'd pray even harder during the more frequent occurrences where he accompanied Sherlock- begging for the strength to protect, if necessary.

One thing he'd never forgotten, though, was a man was _never _to love another man.

Too late.

This foggy, humid London morning, they lay in Sherlock's bed, a comfortable pile of tangled limbs- some long, elegant, fine-boned, and some shorter, stronger, muscled. John's mind was as hazy as the weather outside, but an epiphany still managed to illuminate his scattered thoughts.

He realized that he no longer cared.

He'd been a _good _man all his life.

He figured he could afford a bit of blasphemy.


End file.
